The old miner’s cabin sits on the west bank, jutting out just above the water line. Smoke from the brick chimney silently rises in the frosty autumn air, sure evidence the ol’ digger is still lingering by the warmth of his iron stove.
Sitting in the wicker recliner, he jabs at the glowing coals with a crooked poker thrust through the stove’s open door. The embers responded with fits of angry sparks which quickly race up the glowing flue.
The smoke hangs heavily over the lake bringing the distinct aroma of back bacon, beans and maple syrup. The old man clenches his pipe stem tighter between his teeth then slowly relaxes his aching body into the shape of the wicker’s well-worn bottom and oddly angled back. His head tilts up enough to allow his gaze to easily find the split pine beams, the pealing-varnished white spruce ceiling and the dusty rafters colored by age.
He clearly recalls their every detail: the smell of fresh cut wood, the sounds of hammers, the chatter as he and his partner cut them by hand. Though long ago he can still feel the pull of the Swiss saw, the rhythm in its swing, the stinging sweat running into his eyes. He can still hear the mallets driving the wedges and forming the straight, long planks.
Sixty-years-worth of memories flutter in random disorder through his mind.
As his eyes close, he is sure he can still hear the loons laughing out in the misty, open water, trying to hide their loneliness. They wait, then call again. Waiting for an answer that never comes.
Now, in memory, he is making the long familiar trip down the lake in the heavily ore-loaded canoe. He feels the spray from the windswept waves as they spank the boat’s sides for thinking they could pass with impunity.
An excited pair of coyotes chasing a jack rabbit break out of the bush and onto the sandy beach. Then they suddenly stop and retreat quickly. By instinct they have felt – more than seen – the Osprey leave his high, treetop nest and swiftly zoom towards them with his powerful, terrible talons open wide. They scurry quickly. The Osprey never misses.
His mind also remembers the clear, dark skies. Night happens as if someone has pulled a blanket over the heavens. Only tiny holes in the fabric let bits of light shine through. They are a sign he always watches for, the assurance there is still a God in the bright Heavens. He will send the warm sun back to earth again in the dawn, as he has always done.
The black, jagged silhouette of pines against the purple and mauve sky frame the bright reflection of the full moon, like a yellow skid mark across the lake’s otherwise undisturbed surface.
He hears the crunching under his feet of the empty spruce cones and dry fir needles as his memory retraces quiet walks along the autumn shoreline. So many discussions together, so many problems resolved, so many dreams planned. His eyes tear when he tries, but can no longer remember her face, her voice, her touch, or what they had talked about. It was all so long ago. Like pine trees, their branches frantically waving in vain to try to stop the wild winds, he too finds it impossible to hang on to the past.
The fire in the old stove has gone out. It is cold as he awakes. His stiff muscles complain from being cramped so long in the recliner. He carefully makes his way to the door, steadying himself on whatever is in his path. As he stoops in the open door of the cabin, he sees clearly down to the lake and the bend in the shoreline where the water becomes lost from view. How many times has he struggled to paddle round that bend in heavy headwinds?
A flock of Canada geese come in low over the water but continue to the fields beyond. They honk their excitement as they spot some grain still left for them to feast on.
He can see the brown earth swaths in the fields, warmed by sunlight. How many times has he let the rich brown soil slowly filter through his gnarled fingers while marveling how Mother Nature never wastes anything. Everything will eventually be reclaimed once more. He holds that thought in his mind for a moment, reminding himself that Mother Earth will someday have her claim even on him as well. Someday, someday…
But the young boy still inside him smiles as he says out loud to himself, “Yes, someday, someday. But not today. Today you’ll have to wait!”
The creaky door closes, boards squeak and in a few minutes smoke once more begins to rise silently from the old brick chimney – just as it has done for so many years.
– Doug Garrett
